


Still and Under Your Spell

by deathwailart



Series: Morgaine Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Few people get to see Morgaine Trevelyan as she really is beneath the masks and as one of the few, Cassandra is the one to pull her away from her work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still and Under Your Spell

Sometimes it's almost impossible to imagine Morgaine as anything other than what Cassandra has seen. She is clad in armour at all times, she dons the masks to play the Game. In her glittering robes (there are so many, there are red and white for the Chantry, there are simple garments to appear less threatening to common folk, there are elaborate costumes for dealing with nobility and then there are robes that look more like true armour for battle) she can stand tall and proud, stand as regal as any queen or empress. She can be aloof and cold, she can inspire with mercy and kindness, she can get exactly what she wants. She can look as if she is not of this world, as though she is not flesh and blood, as though more than just her hand glows. It's easy to believe that she's been touched by the divine. Cassandra believes even if she knows that Morgaine's beliefs are not as the world perceives them. The world does not see the Morgaine Cassandra sees however, they are not afforded such a privilege.  
  
There are times when the door closes or when the rest are dismissed, when the candles gutter, burning low and snuffing themselves out in a pool of wax, when there is no paint on her face to hide the dark circles, when her lips are pink with a still healing mark from biting her lip and not the blood red masterpiece she shows to the world that Morgaine looks like a woman. When her shoulders hunch under the weight of burdens they can only hope to help her shoulder for a moment, a fate that weighs upon her so heavily. She has done so many impossible things it's easy to forget Morgaine isn't indestructible. It is when they're alone that Morgaine covers up her left hand as though the sight of it makes her sick when she shows it to all the world to remind them of who she is: Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, chosen by the Maker, the one who can seal the rifts. It troubles her, Cassandra can see that but no one else would ever know.  
  
She trusts Cassandra with her doubts. She trusts Cassandra with the moments when she believes that maybe the Maker did choose her, that this is all for a reason and not some accident that fell into her lap. Oh to the world she has never denied for a moment, she has always been the Herald of Andraste, proud yet humble, burning with her conviction but she doubts. She doubts and trusts that Cassandra will be there to help her through it. After all, when Morgaine tells Cassandra that she loves her, Cassandra knows it and believes it. Morgaine is fond of speeches, words coming easily to her but her smile is sincere, a thumb on her chin to brush her bottom lip, fingers tracing the line of Cassandra's scar. When Cassandra tells Morgaine that she loves her, Morgaine doesn't look for hidden meaning the way she does with almost everyone else the second they open their mouths; Morgaine is flustered, she forgets her composure and beams then kisses Cassandra to hide her smiles.  
  
It's rare to get true moments alone these days. Everyone in the inquisition is busy and since the Winter Palace it's been hectic, personal situations rearing their heads or a flurry of ravens as agents are dispatched to gain whatever they need as they try to make themselves ready. What they've learned from Morrigan hardly inspires great confidence in Cassandra but Morgaine seems ready, driven and determined, often consulting with Morrigan and Dorian for hours at a time. From what Cassandra has learned through her own questions or from what Leliana has gathered from an almost terrifying number of sources, Morgaine was always pushing herself in the Circle, always striving to be the very best, to know more, to master all that she sees. It shouldn't surprise her that Morgaine and Vivienne rarely see eye to eye, no true bad blood between them but the rivalry of two people striving to be better than the other, used to the competitive nature of the Circle so that it spills into every aspect of their lives. It's somewhat disturbing now that her drive extends to necromancy, old memories of incense stirring but Cassandra is not a mage and she is not the one leading the inquisition, if Morgaine believes this is what gives them strength and an advantage, she won't judge so long as she isn't expected to sit and drink tea with perfumed corpses. Still, Morgaine needs rest to be ready and after carefully clearing both their schedules, with no small amount of nervous butterflies in her stomach, she sets off in search of Morgaine, hoping she won't need to extract her from the clutches of mages. Well, mage, singular. Dorian. She's had quite enough of his teasing for the moment.  
  
Thankfully Morgaine is alone in her private quarters, hunched painfully over her desk as candles half-burned dot the tables and the desk where stacks of books sit. There's an angry furrow in her brow, full red lips twisted into a scowl. Cassandra knows that look, she's seen it reflected well enough on her own face and it makes her smile as she closes the door softly, her footsteps as careful as she approaches Morgaine. Absorbed in her work it isn't until Cassandra blows out a candle, Morgaine jumping in alarm.  
  
"What was that for? Am I late for some appointment with some dreadful simpering imbecile Josephine wants me to make nice with?"  
  
Cassandra laughs, coming around the table to tuck loose strands of hair behind Morgaine's ear as she kisses her temple. "No. You've been alone with your books too long-"  
  
"You're a fine one to talk," Morgaine retorts so Cassandra gives her a shove and Morgaine must be exhausted because there's no pushing back, just a long fingered hand wrapping around Cassandra's wrist, fingertips tickling over where her pulse beats strong. "So, what's the plan?"  
  
"I could read to you, none of this, I don't even know how to pronounce some of the words in those tomes of yours."  
  
"Honestly, neither can I, apparently my Tevene needs a great deal of work before we even touch on the ancient stuff." She pauses and she's annoyed at the slight, small though it might be. What a proud creature and Cassandra possibly shouldn't love her even more for it. "Apparently."  
  
"Then we speak no more of it, mark your place," Cassandra commands and Morgaine obeys, rising to her feet in a fluid motion, arms stretched high over her head, a strip of flesh bared between the top of her trousers and the bottom of her jacket and Cassandra cannot resist. She fits her hands to that slender waist, slides them up and under the simple clothes Morgaine wears alone, bending her back when the mage arches into the touch.  
  
"Take me to bed," Morgaine sighs against her mouth, arms looped around her neck, black eyelashes against pale cheeks. "Make me forget about mangled Tevene and fragments of elvish and magisters."  
  
"You've been reading Varric's books," Cassandra accuses. Morgaine's eyes open a fraction right as Cassandra feels her cheeks heating.  
  
"Well you _will_ leave them lying by our bed won't you? So go on, treat me like one of those heroines or the blushing maidens, rip all of my bodices-"  
  
"You don't _have_ bodices-"  
  
"As I have to remind some folk, we must make do these days."  
  
"Or I could tuck you in bed and read to you, not Varric's books or yours but," with one hand she goes to the pouch, fingers fumbling for a small volume that she reveals with a smile, "there is poetry I think – I _hope_ you will like as much as I do. Nevarran." It's dog-eared, the cover destroyed in places, the spine broken, the pages staying in only with a hope and a prayer and she might not love her country as much as perhaps someone of her station should in the eyes of others but she cannot deny that they've written some beautiful things.  
  
"I'd like that," Morgaine says drowsily.  
  
No one else gets to see Morgaine the way Cassandra does, with Cassandra's back to the headboard of their elaborate Orlesian monstrosity of a bed, Morgaine's long hair unbound, a black spill over Cassandra's lap as she drifts between sleep and waking, lulled by Cassandra's voice reciting poems in a language Morgaine only knows in fragments. At least Cassandra can protect her like this, when she lies soft and vulnerable, when she's more trusting than she is when she's awake. Cassandra will always cherish this, will always fight to protect it.


End file.
